Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1)

“Oh. Yeah.”

“That night on the roof, you got shrimp, and on Thanksgiving, you ordered fish.” He looks over his shoulder to the patio and the grill. “I hope salmon is okay? You had the salmon crepes so . . .”

I’m awed that a man as busy as he is, working on the movie of a lifetime, would pay attention to such fine details and my preferences.

“Uh, salmon is great. Thank you.”

“You hungry?”

I nod, and he takes my hand, leading me out to the balcony. The sun hasn’t quite set, still deciding between day and night. We’re at that golden hour—a photographer’s dream.

“You’ve been busy down here,” I say, smiling at the table on the balcony, set with beautiful china and glassware, lit by candles. Soft music pipes in from invisible speakers.

“It didn’t take much.” He pulls my chair out.

“What a gentleman,” I say, glancing up at him over my shoulder when I sit.

“We’ll see if you still think so by the end of the night,” he says at my ear, kissing my neck where the dress is secured.

I catch his hand, hold him in place. “I’m not that hungry. We don’t have to wait.”

“I told you I have plans.” He chuckles, pulling away and sitting across from me. “We’ll get there.”

I want to go all Willy Wonka Veruca Salt and tell him I want it now, but that didn’t end so good for her. I can be a little patient a little while longer. I pick up my fork and slice into the food he prepared. Canon Holt cooked dinner for me.

Chewing, he points his fork at my face. “What’s that smile about?”

“I was just thinking that I’ve never had a famous director cook for me.” I take a bite of the salmon and groan. “And it’s actually delicious.”

“I am a man of many talents. Most of them behind a camera, but I can burn a little when pressed.”

“And you were pressed?” I smile at him through the candlelight. “I’m actually pretty easy to please. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

“I wanted tonight to be—”

“Special. I know.”

The humor fades from his expression, and his face grows serious. “You have to be sure before we do this, Neevah. Even now, it’s not too late to change your mind.”

“We can skip dinner as far as I’m concerned.” I lay my fork down. “I’m not afraid of coming off as too eager, Canon. I am eager. You said you can read me easily anyway, so I can’t hide that. You know I want you.”

His stare doesn’t waver, but darkens, the long lashes dropping as desire stirs behind his eyes.

“But I want more than sex,” I confess. “I’m not saying it has to be serious, but I do want you to know this means something to me. You called me generous, and I am, onstage. When I perform, but I’ve never slept with anyone I worked for. I do hold myself back in this. I’m careful about who I share my body with, so when I do this with you, it will already be special to me.”

Even through the soft beard, I see the muscle in his jaw flexing. His fists clench on the table by his plate. He looks like a man on the verge of losing control, and I want to push him over the edge. Before I can, the music changes and the low throb of bass ushers in Luther’s opening lyrics of “If This World Were Mine,” temporarily distracting me. Canon smiles, standing from the table and holding out his hand. Did he remember our conversation on the balcony? Arrange this?

“Is this a coincidence?” I ask, standing on shaky legs.

“I’m a director,” he says, pulling me into his arms to sway with the languid chorus. “Things are rarely coincidental with me.”

I laugh up at him, my heart a turnstile in my chest, and link my wrists behind his neck. The night has grown cooler, and I can’t discern if the goose bumps splattering my arms are from the air or his hands moving on my bare skin, kneading the muscles into languor. Or the soft caress of him at my neck when he dips to breathe in the scent behind my ear. The sky has darkened, smudged into nightfall, lit by stars like lanterns. With the pool below glimmering like a jewel, these minutes in his arms, held close, are the most perfect I can remember.

I frame his face, the distinctive bone structure hard beneath my hands.

“And you say you’re not a romantic,” I whisper.

“I’m not. I just like you.”

“Then I’m one lucky girl.” I try to laugh, but what’s happening tonight, now, means too much. I can’t play it off or make it any less. It feels like the universe has come down to these seconds under a watching sky. It’s come down to the contact between our bodies and our breaths, growing more ragged the longer we sway together. To our eyes, melded by passion and something subtly stronger.